Upon the morning after the Pelican¹ stood out of the Lion's Gate and headed southward, she was outside Cape² Flattery and standing³ off to the northwest, bucking⁴ and pitching and leaning over under a stiff blow from the westward⁵.  
Captain Pontifex, although on this cruise he carried no third mate, adhered to the custom of whaling skippers and stood no watches himself except at times of necessity. On this fine morning, however, he was on the quarter-deck, talking with black Manuel Mendez. The steward⁶ approached them gingerly, for he was rather seasick⁷.
 
"Well?" snapped the skipper. "How are they? Do they know we're at sea?"
 
"Yes, sir, they seem to, sir," returned the Cockney. "Mr. Dennis is wery sick, sir. The lady, sir, is not."
 
"Taking care of him, is she?"
 
"Yes, sir."
 
"Well, steward, you give them my compliments, and say that I expect them to appear in the saloon cabin at four bells sharp."
 
"Yes, sir."
 
"And, steward! You might ask the Missus for a bit of raw blubber. Eat it raw, steward, and it'll cure what's ailing⁸ you. fat whale blubber——"
 
"Yes, sir," said the steward faintly, his cheeks turning green. He fled in haste.
 
Black Mendez grinned delightedly. "Dey'll be no good for fight, Cap'n."
 
The skipper merely laughed in his throat, and strode to the companion way. He had changed overnight. No longer was he under the shadow of the land, under the hand of port and civil and military authorities! No longer was he among the meshes⁹ of mankind's net! Here he was the master. Here he was authority ultimate and supreme¹⁰. Here, on the high seas, his word, and his alone, was law. He only dictated¹¹; all others obeyed! He was the skipper. He was absolute.
 
Something of all this showed in his eyes as he went below. At the foot of the ladder he met the Missus, rock-like and indomitable. She looked into his eyes and shrank slightly.
 
"At four bells," said Captain Pontifex curtly¹². "In the cabin—with him."
 
She nodded and looked after him as he swung away aft. She was afraid of him, but she was proud of him—was she not his woman? She, of whom all others aboard the Pelican were in dread¹³, stood in fear of the skipper.
 
 
 
Captain Pontifex passed into the saloon at the stern, where the helpless Miles Hathaway sat in his chair beside the screwed-down cot that served him as a bunk¹⁴. Despite the hardness and the harshness and the terror of the Missus' life, she was after all a woman; the cabin ports were curtained with flowered chintz, the big gun-rack and the little bookcase were also curtained; in the corner near the stern ports was a heavy tea-jar lashed¹⁵ to the deck, in which blossomed a huge scarlet¹⁶ geranium plant. This geranium was the pride and joy of the Missus, and the envy and admiration¹⁷ of all visiting whaling skippers.
 
The skipper pulled up a chair in front of Miles Hathaway, stuffed tobacco into his pipe, struck a match and, through the ensuing cloud of smoke, fastened his keen dark eyes upon the staring gaze of the paralytic¹⁸.
 
"Well," he observed, "I've got 'em, haven't I? Bit of a surprise, eh?"
 
It seemed as though some fearful inner convulsion swept over the helpless man. His mouth opened slightly; his eyelids¹⁹ jerked. But he could not speak.
 
Pontifex laughed. "Told you I'd make you talk, didn't I? We're off to sea at last, Cap'n, and I've got her aboard. Also, her husband—she'll be a widow early, won't she? That is, if you're still stubborn. Well, I told you that I expected to go Dumas père one better, by the aid of modern science; but, my dear Miles, we must continue to stick to the old novelist a little while. So you'll kindly²⁰ answer in the usual way when I ask questions."
 
For a moment Pontifex puffed²¹ at his pipe. Then he took from the table another pipe, filled it with tobacco, lighted it, and placed it between the teeth of Hathaway.
 
"Now we'll have a friendly little chat over our 'baccy, eh? Real old sailormen, eh?" He chuckled²² with horrible mockery. "At four bells, Cap'n, they'll come in here and we'll hold a meeting of the directorate. The Hathaway Salvage²³ Company—how's that, eh? Sorry you're out of it. Do you remember that time in Vladivostok, when you met me on the street and cursed me back and forth²⁴ for marooning²⁵ those deserters on an ice-floe? Well, I told you then that I'd get even, Miles. And now—she is at sea with me! Good joke, eh?"
 
The subtle horror-gleam in the eyes of Miles Hathaway was intensified²⁶. His massive face purpled, then paled again under its stubble of whitish beard.
 
"Bo'sun Joe slipped up in letting her get married," pursued Pontifex. "But we'll need her signature and that of her husband—or we'll so tell them. Savvy²⁷, Miles? We'll tell 'em that; we'll make it convincing, too. We'll make 'em quite certain that what we want is their signatures and their help. But you know better, Miles!
 
"Yes, you know better. You know that I had to get the girl in order to make you talk, blast you! That's why I spent money getting her. That's why I got her. As for Dennis, we'll get rid of him later. He doesn't count."
 
Again Pontifex resumed his pipe, puffing²⁸ it alight. He spoke²⁹ smilingly, now—an ugly smile that curved his lips. He leaned forward with a swift intent question.
 
"If it's hard to use your eyelids, Miles, answer with the pipe. Are you going to tell me where the John Simpson lays?"
 
Captain Hathaway sent a single spiral of smoke up-curling from his pipe.
 
"No?" Pontifex ceased to smile. "We've tried torturing you, Miles, and you're as stubborn a devil as I ever met. Do you want us to bring the girl in here and torture her—under your eyes? Hm! You remember Frenchy, who put the irons to your feet? Well—Frenchy has spoken for her. And Frenchy comes aboard at Unalaska.
 
"Now, Miles, if you give me the bearings of the Simpson, I'll put you and her and her man ashore³⁰ at Unalaska, all shipshape. I give you my solemn word on it, and you know my word means something; whatever else I do, I don't break my word! By the time we reach Unalaska you'll understand pretty well how we're going to work on things. The day we hit Unimak Pass I'll ask you once more—and only once. If you refuse, I'll set to work on the girl—or Frenchy will. You think it over, Miles. You think it over hard, blast you! Now that she's here, I'm going to make you talk!"
 
Pontifex knocked out his pipe and that of Hathaway. Then he went on deck.
 
 
 
In the meantime his good wife was visiting the Dennis cabin. Florence, for all her slim frailness³¹, was untouched by mal-de-mer, and greeted the Missus smilingly. Tom Dennis, sitting on the lower bunk, managed a weak grin. He was rapidly growing better.
 
"The steward brought yeou breakfast?" said the Missus, "Is Mr. Dennis feeling better?"
 
"Quite, I think," responded Florence. "Surely we're not at sea?"
 
Mrs. Pontifex nodded. "Oh, yes, we're well aoutside Flattery."
 
"And what are we doing there?" demanded Tom Dennis in surprise.
 
"Making abaout nine knots," coolly returned the Missus, transfixing him with her deep cold eyes. "Never mind discussing it naow. If yeou folks will show up in the cabin at four bells, we'll talk it aout!"
 
"But what does it mean?" Florence, a little pale, laid her hand upon the woman's arm. Her eyes searched the rocklike features with anxious pleading. "Won't you please tell me? There's nothing wrong?"
 
"Nothing wrong at all, dearie." Mrs. Pontifex patted the girl's hand and smiled a flinty smile. "It means money in all our pockets, that's what it means—aye, in yours, too! So don't think too hard of us for running off to sea with yeou young folks until ye know all abaout it.
 
"And naow, dearie, I have to do the cooking, because that blasted cook of ours went ashore and didn't show up again. Taking care of your poor father has 'baout worn me daown, and I know yeou'll be willing to look after him a bit——"
 
"Of course! I meant to speak to you about it before this!" exclaimed Florence. "If you'll show me——"
 
"Come right along with me. He ain't much trouble, poor man, and it's the least we can do to make him comfortable. If there's anything yeou want done, too, just call steward and tell him."
 
"We'll be back soon, Tom dear," said Florence, and departed with Mrs. Pontifex.
 
When the door closed, Tom Dennis sat motionless for a moment, then raised his head. He slipped to the deck and stood upright, holding to the bunk. A slow smile crept into his chalky features, and presently he stretched himself luxuriantly.
 
"Passing off! I'm bad, but not near so bad as I might be," he commented audibly. "It's a good thing for me that I was raised on the Maine coast, and know ships and the sea as well as anybody! They don't know it, however, and Florence won't tell. Now, why the deuce have they kidnapped us this way?"
 
Frowning he sipped³² some cold coffee from a pot left by the steward an hour earlier, Then he went to his huge trunk of a grip, its telescopic sides fat almost to bursting, which lay at the head of the bunk.
 
He unlocked the big grip and opened it. Then he discarded his shirt and collar, the same which he had worn the preceding day, and slipped into a grey flannel³³ shirt which he took from the suitcase. His tie knotted about the collar, he returned to the grip and knelt above it. Drawing forth some clothes, he threw them carelessly on the floor—threw out more, until a pile of rumpled³⁴ garments lay beside him. Then he produced a large flat package and two small ones. He opened these, disclosing six large phonograph records, a reproducer, and a box of needles. Then, from within the suitcase he lifted out a small hornless phonograph itself. He stared down at it and chuckled.
 
"I told Ericksen the truth when I said I'd given that square suitcase to the porter," he reflected, as he fitted the reproducer to the machine. "But I didn't mention that I'd kept the things in the suitcase."
 
Just why he had done this, Tom Dennis was by no means certain, except that his suspicions of Ericksen had never quite downed. It was very curious that the sole baggage of the assassin had consisted of this phonograph outfit³⁵. Bo'sun Joe's interest in the matter was also curious; his presence in the compartment³⁶ belonging to the assassin had never ceased to trouble Tom Dennis. More than he cared to admit, Dennis suspected that there was, or had been, some definite relation, and by no means an unfriendly one, between Ericksen and the would-be murderer.
 
And why had that man possessed³⁷ nothing except this phonograph and six grand-opera records? Dennis wanted to try out those records. He strongly hoped that the labels might be a blind—that the records might have some information to convey. Did those records hold the secret, then?
 
Dennis wound up the machine, inserted a needle in the slot, and set one of the records upon the turntable. To his complete and utter stupefaction he found that upon the record was not a word; merely a deep bass³⁸ voice repeating the alphabet over and over in a slow and distinct sequence! After each letter "zed", followed the numerals from one to naught³⁹.
 
One after another, Dennis tried each of the six records, patiently listening to that maddening repetition of that alphabet. There was positively⁴⁰ nothing else on them!
 
 
 
At length he glanced at his watch, found that it was nearly ten o'clock, or four bells. With no little disdain⁴¹ and disappointment, he bundled the phonograph and records back into the depths of his suitcase, and was just locking the grip when Florence entered the cabin.
 
"Are you ready, dear?" she demanded eagerly, a spot of colour in her pale cheeks. "They're all waiting for us there in the cabin—and, Tom! It's a company! The Hathaway Salvage Company!"
 
"And what does that mean?" asked Dennis smiling as he kissed her.
 
"They're going to tell us. Are you better, dear?"
 
"Oh, I'm all right—able to walk, anyhow. Forward, and solve the mystery!"
 
Together they left their cabin and went aft.
 
In company with Miles Hathaway and the tall scarlet geranium in the green-striped jar, they found five people sitting around the table. At the head was Captain Pontifex, at the foot the Missus. On one side sat Mr. Leman, pawing his fringe of whiskers. At the other sat Ericksen, a satanic twist to his freckled⁴² mouth as he eyed Captain Hathaway, and at his side the black boat-steerer, Corny.
 
For a wonder, Pontifex rose as Florence entered the room, the others following his example. The skipper indicated two chairs placed beside Leman.
 
"Will you sit down, please? I have the pleasure of introducing our officers, except Mr. Mendez, who has the deck. Mr. Leman, our second mate; you know Ericksen, I think, and Corny. This chair, Mrs. Dennis—thank you. I might add that we are the officers and directors of the Hathaway Salvage Company of which I am president, Mrs. Pontifex, treasurer⁴³; Mr. Leman, secretary—the other gentlemen directors."
 
Dennis, feeling rather helpless and bewildered, sank into the chair beside Florence.
 
"For our own protection"—the skipper twirled his moustache—"we have been forced to maintain silence until we were at sea. Were it known that Captain Miles Hathaway were alive, a fortune would be lost to us all; this one fact will explain many questions which may have perplexed⁴⁴ you, Mr. Dennis."
 
"A few things need explanation, all right," said Dennis.
 
"Conceded!" The skipper smiled. "I may add that we are not bound for the whaling grounds, and we are not upon a whaling cruise, as everyone has imagined. For that reason we have shipped Kanakas for'ard; they are faithful good seamen⁴⁵, and ask no questions. Neither they nor the other fo'c'sle hands, of course, are in this company of ours."
 
"And what is the purpose of the company, then?" asked Florence quickly.
 
"It may be very briefly⁴⁶ stated in one word: salvage! Your father's ship, the John Simpson, was lost at sea with all hands. But the natives who brought your poor father into Unalaska told a story of having found him upon the shore of an island, doubtless one of the Aleuts; and under the lee of that island they had seen a wreck⁴⁷ in water so shallow that her masts stuck out above the surface. That wreck was the Simpson.
 
"You may know that the majority of those islands are deserted⁴⁸, waterless, good for nothing. Not even a Jap sealing poacher would observe the masts of a wreck, unless by chance he came to the spot. We may take it for granted that the Simpson has never been found. Unfortunately, the natives who brought in Captain Hathaway gave no exact location and disappeared almost at once."
 
Tom Dennis leaned forward. "But why salvage a ship that's been wrecked⁴⁹? She's of no earthly good! And her cargo⁵⁰ will belong to the owners."
 
"Not so. She has been taken off the register!" Captain Pontifex showed his white teeth in a smile of perfect confidence. "The point is this, Mr. Dennis: the ship was lost while en route to Vladivostok, laden⁵¹ with supplies for Russia. Those supplies consisted of machine-guns almost entirely⁵²; of machine-guns and ammunition⁵³.
 
"Water will not have harmed that cargo, Mr. Dennis—or if so, only slightly. I have taken pains to ascertain⁵⁴ that the guns were so wrapped as to be waterproof⁵⁵. The value runs up close to a million and a half of dollars. The inference is plain, eh?"
 
Tom Dennis sat back, stunned⁵⁶. The inference was plain indeed—a million and a half to be had for the picking up!